


There's Always Tomorrow

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cages, Christmas, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hell Trauma, HoodieTimePrompt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 04, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re standing in front of two reindeer calves when: "They shouldn't be chained up, Sammy..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Always Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sidjack](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sidjack), [mad_server](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mad_server).



> **_A/N:_** HAPPY BIRTHDAY **sidjack**! I'm sorry this one is a little late and a bit angstier than I'd anticipated but I hope this fits the spot nonetheless. In the spirit of multiple-fills, this is my fill for **mad_server** ’s [prompt](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/523649.html?thread=6427265#t6427265) at **hoodie_time** 's [a Winter/Holiday themed Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme (themed comment-fic meme #3)](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/523649.html) which went thusly: _Dean's sad and sick. Sam takes him to a petting zoo to see some reindeer, to cheer him up. They consider stealing all of the animals..._ I hope this one fills the bill.
> 
> Occurs after _4x10 HEAVEN AND HELL_ , around the time of _4x11 FAMILY REMAINS_ with general S4 spoilers.
> 
> Special thanks to: **i_speak_tongue** for being awesome and beta'ing / hand-holding. 
> 
> **_Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. Also, I do not own the song with the same title from the old Rankin/Bass _Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer_ Christmas Special – just borrowing for the title, so don’t sue.

“Aw, damn,” Dean grumbles, leveraging himself out of the passenger seat of the Impala, right arm hugged close against his body, batting away Sam’s extended hand. His eyes rake the sky just behind Sam’s head and Sam knows the moment his brother’s caught sight of the large, gaudy, faded red sign: _Gershwin Farm and Children’s Zoo_. Dean shifts his arm and a lightweight black wrist brace — bought at a CVS two days and a state ago — peeks out from beneath the cuff of his coat. “A petting zoo? Seriously? You said this was a case.”

He sniffles, coughs, and Sam winces at the wet sound of phlegm rattling loosely in Dean’s chest.

“It is a case. And they got reindeer. You always wanted to see Rudolph.” Sam smiles but it feels fake, the muscles stiff and forced.

Dean scowls at him, “I’m not ten anymore. ‘Sides. That was all you. You pitched a fit about not seeing Donner or Blitzen or whoever it was supposed to be at that place out in Iowa for like three days. So is this case real or is this just a way for you to get us killed by rabies?”

Sam doesn’t bother rising to his brother’s bait. “Okay. Fine. There’re rumors of a spirit or poltergeist spooking the animals. You happy?”

“Ecstatic.” The sarcasm is undermined by another coughing fit.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No shit, Sherlock. You were the one who dragged me out to bumfuck, nowhere to a friggin’ petting zoo in sub-zero temperatures.” He slams the door harder than necessary and Sam doesn’t miss the way Dean’s hand lingers on the handle in silent apology.

**::: ::: :::**

Dean’s footsteps are slow, sluggish and he stumbles over the frozen dips in the mud, trailing a good five paces behind. He snuffles, wheezes, and coughs sporadically. When he stops and hawks up clear-yellow gunk, Sam feels slightly sorry he’s dragged Dean out into the frigid Ohio weather.

“You wanna head back? I can do this and you can sleep that off in the car…” he trails off faintly at the murderous glare Dean gives him. Or what would be a plant-withering stare if it weren’t so damn pathetic — all chapped nose and red-rimmed eyes.

“Are you saying I’m a toddler who needs his binky and a nap?” His peeling lower lip juts out petulantly.

Sam holds up his hands in placating surrender as Dean shoulders by, drawing his immobile wrist closer to his chest, cradling it in his left hand.

Yeah. A toddler way past his naptime and needing his binky sounded like a near enough approximation.

**::: ::: :::**

Dean’s too miserable to really notice the slightly-chubby zookeeper’s daughter with the white-blonde pigtails eyeing him and he doesn’t really participate in the interview, slumping against the wall of the hay barn, sneezing periodically and smearing the cuff of his jacket under his nose.

Sam takes over the question-and-answer and quickly deduces that the activity is centered on the reindeers’ paddock and they’re given leave to freely wander the grounds.

**::: ::: :::**

Dean doesn’t say anything else and the more they wind their way through the maze of fences and wire, the quieter he gets, hunching in on himself, squeezing the rigid brace strapped around his sprain. He doesn’t bury his hands in the warm, woolly fur of the llamas and backs away from the too-domesticated, overly familiar animals that press up too close to the gates, seeking handouts and petting.

**::: ::: :::**

They’re standing in front of two reindeer calves when: "They shouldn't be chained up, Sammy..." Dean whispers finally, his voice hoarse and scratchy and sad. He sounds dangerously close to tears.

Sam snaps his gaze to Dean, twisting his neck so fast that for a moment it feels as though he’s given himself whiplash.

Dean’s intensely interested in his shoes, working the worn toe of his boot into the frozen ground, refusing to make eye contact, shoulders tucked high around his flushed ears. Sam isn’t sure if it’s embarrassment or cold. Probably both.

Sam turns back to the sad-eyed reindeer and pokes long fingers through the chicken-wire fence, curling the tips of them into his palm, offering his knuckles. The male calf muzzles his knuckles with a velvet-rough nose, licks them with an abrasive tongue. “No. Nothing deserves this,” he finally says, rubbing the moss-soft nubs of antlers and thin, stretched flesh. _You didn’t_.

“It was such a long time, Sam,” Dean murmurs. “Longer than I was alive.”

And Sam doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He hadn’t known what to say in Kentucky, when Dean cracked wide open along his fault line, and he still doesn’t know what to say. There is nothing he can say to make it better, the fissures too fragile and close to the surface. He thinks of the iron strength offered by Ruby’s blood; how powerful he’s becoming. He wants to find the demon or demons that caged up and tortured his brother and make them pay for leaving him with a shattered husk. To send them to wherever they go once he’s done with them. He’s nearly strong enough, now. Sam glances over at Dean and sees his brother’s curled even smaller on himself, shivering slightly, and he stuffs down his rage.

“Wanna spring ‘em loose?” Sam asks half-seriously, grinning. “We got wire cutters in the car.”

Dean doesn’t answer, scuffs his boot against the clumps of brown-yellow, frost-burned dead grass, turns his head to the opposite side to cough into the shoulder of his nylon jacket and sniffs hard. _Yes_. A shrug. _Can’t_.

More slow seconds go by and Dean clears his throat as though trying to get his vocal cords to work again. “They’d die,” he rasps out. “They’re too broken in.”

“Dean…”

“Don’t.”

Reluctantly, hesitantly, Dean pokes the fingers of his good hand — red, cold — through the wire and lets the tiny doe sniff at his fingers. “Hey, Clarice,” he whispers. “You like that, don’tcha?” The words earn him a tentative, gentle lick. She pulls back, fixes listless, liquid eyes on them for a long moment before edging forward to lick Dean’s palm again.

Dean looks up and Sam can see the pain there, the mirrored flatness. And his rage flares again, a brief, hot flash that makes his hands curl into fists, squeezing the chicken wire until it cuts into the sensitive flesh between his fingers.

“Dean…” Sam tries again, keeping his voice quiet and even, forcing his grip on the fence to loosen. “You got out. That’s more than what anyone else can say. It’s a start. It’s going to take time.”

Dean doesn’t say anything and looks out in the middle distance.

“Who knows? Maybe they’ll get out too, someday. Retire somewhere where there’s sky and no fences.”

“You done with the chick flick?” Dean growls.

“Yeah.” Sam exhales, stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his stiff brown hoodie, burrowing up in the fleece and nudging Dean with his shoulder. “C’mon, dude, let’s go home. There’s always tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a [visual aid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQvbJ-spKuU) of the song (which I do not own) that provided the semi-inspiration for this fic.


End file.
